


A Heartfelt Love

by EnduringParadox



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Humor, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Romantic Fluff, Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29789916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: “Leave us be or I’ll break your jaw.”“Geralt—”Reynauld the Lovesick actually looked smug. “White Wolf, you show your true colors. You refuse to fight for the man you’ve enchanted? You refuse to face me? Are you afraid the strength of a witcher is no match for the love I have for him? ”“I don’t duel braying jackasses,” Geralt snapped.---One fine day Geralt is accosted by a knight who wants to duel him for the love of Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Geralt wants to put this former lover of Jaskier's in the dirt. Luckily Jaskier knows how to deal with this kind of situation.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 377





	A Heartfelt Love

**Author's Note:**

> Another little fic idea, a knight trying to duel Geralt for Jaskier's affections and Geralt learning a bit about Jaskier's past. I hope you enjoy reading it!

It was a warm, sunny day. The market’s streets thronged with prospective buyers bustling this way and that, examining cloth and fruit and jewelry and haggling with the merchants at their stalls.

And amidst all the babble and bartering and Jaskier’s half-murmured observations about the apparently exceptional produce this season Geralt’s ears picked up the sound of someone shouting at them.

That was not an unusual occurrence. Often they angered one person or another in any given town for any given reason—usually Geralt for simply existing as he did and Jaskier for past dalliances long remembered.

From the man’s words, Geralt initially took this instance as falling under the latter category.

“There you are! You—you _rake!_ Usurper of the heart! Vile incubus! Seducing, deceiving, and _ensnaring_ the loveliest of this world’s creatures!”

It seemed that the bard had bedded someone in nearly every city, town, village, and hamlet on the continent. Could they not have a pleasant morning together without facing some jilted lover’s ire? Geralt put a protective arm around the Jaskier’s waist, preparing himself to have to tell the man to piss off. “Jaskier,” he said with a weary sigh, “What did you do to this man’s betrothed?”

But Jaskier wasn’t at the ready with staunch denials and faux-outrage. Instead he stood stock still and pale. “Nothing. He hasn’t got one,” he whispered.

“Sleep with another relative, then?”

“No,” Jaskier replied. He bit his lower lip. “I slept with _him_.”

“What,” Geralt said. And then he made a strangled, spluttering noise—quite undignified, full of shock, because the man had stomped over to them, still ranting and raving all the while, and yanked off his gauntlet and thrown it straight into Geralt’s face.

The man had the makings of a knight from a song. Tall, well-built, classically handsome with a square jaw, sharp cheekbones, a long, aquiline nose, golden curls that tumbled to his shoulders, and sea-green eyes burning with passion and determination. One of his long fingers pointed at Geralt in accusation. “You, witcher! You’ve lead my love astray. My Julian—cursed to dog your brutish heels, brave the dangerous wilds, travel under the scorching sun and sleep in the freezing cold, all for but a scrap of affection. I challenge you to a duel for his heart.”

Geralt asked, voice flat, “What the fuck are you on about? Julian? I don’t know a Julian.”

His arm was still around Jaskier’s waist. The bard shifted slightly, uncomfortable. “I’m Julian,” Jaskier said. His voice was softer and quieter than Geralt had ever heard. “That’s, um, that’s me, Geralt.”

“What.”

The sunlight glinted off the man’s finely made armor as he brought himself to his full height. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove! He who possesses the sweetest of voices, the most skillful of hands, the softest of lips, and my heart—nay, my entire being! My very soul!”

Geralt growled. Not only had this asshole’s peacocking about garnered them a small crowd, not only did Jaskier’s scent change to something shy, embarrassed, uncertain—but the mention of the bard’s skilled hands and soft lips sent a sharp burst of jealousy coursing through Geralt’s veins.

“And who are you?” he asked the—the what? The knight who, from his armor’s shine and unblemished paint, had never seen a day of combat? Some noble’s brat who thought love could be won like some kind of prize? This _motherfucker_ who waxed poetic about Jaskier’s _body_ right in front of Geralt as though the witcher wasn’t going to make him eat his fucking teeth?

Jaskier must’ve seen the way his body tensed, because he scurried in between the two men. With a hand placed on Geralt’s chest to keep him from darting forward pull the knight to the ground and scrape his face against stone he said, with a concentrated calm, “Geralt, this is Reynauld de Hulbec, son of—”

He cut Jaskier off. “I don’t give a fuck who he is.” To Reynauld he barked, “Leave us be or I’ll break your jaw.”

“Geralt—”

Reynauld the Lovesick actually looked smug. “White Wolf, you show your true colors. You refuse to fight for the man you’ve enchanted? You refuse to face me? Are you afraid the strength of a witcher is no match for the love I have for him? ”

“I don’t duel braying jackasses,” Geralt snapped. _Love_. What did this man know about what he felt for Jaskier? His bard who’s turned his contracts into triumphs and transformed him from butcher to hero with song. His traveling companion, his dearest friend. The only person he’s gone to bed with to demand that he stay and cuddle afterwards. The only lover he’s ever had to wake up, groggy and bleary-eyed in the morning and, as the sleep cleared from his eyes, smile with delight when he saw Geralt’s grizzled face. Jaskier was beautiful and curious and exasperating and vain and kind and what the _fuck_ did some knight whose name had never even passed Jaskier’s lips know about their relationship?

His reply only served to make the knight puff up even more. With a dazzling smile he turned to Jaskier and said, “Darling Julian, surely it’s fate that’s brought us together once more this day. I _ache_ for you, oh most beloved to my heart. Please, see reason. Leave this life of danger and iniquity—traveling with a _witcher._ I will treat you as your standing _deserves_. You’ll want for nothing. The finest clothes, the most delectable meals, all the love I can give you. I can barely stand to bed anyone else for the memory of your body underneath mine. All I can hear are your sweet moans and gasps, all I can see are your lovely, plump limps wrapped around my—”

Geralt snarled, “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

There’d be no retaliation for it, not from the city watch—he was certain of that. There were plenty of witnesses all around. People with husbands and wives and lovers. They’d testify how he was goaded into it by a man who questioned his love for Jaskier and who flaunted his knowledge of the bard’s body right to his face. Everyone had their limits, and Geralt had just reached his.

Some of the crowd scattered at the sight of the witcher reaching for his sword. Others drew a little closer, eager for prospective bloodshed and delightful gossip.

“Oh, gods, wait, don’t! Don’t!” Jaskier’s bright blue eyes were large and pleading, his voice shrill with panic. He grasped Geralt’s wrist and shook his head. Then he walked towards the knight and fell to his knees on the cobblestone path. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer and beseeched the knight, “Oh, please, Reynauld. I beg you, don’t harm my beloved. There is truly no better swordsman than you, but I fear this is not a matter of skill but a matter of the heart. I know you are a good, kind man who would make a fine husband, but alas, the wretched organ beating in my chest loves Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. I could not bear it if the two of you crossed steel, for surely you would win and slay my reason for breathing. I am not worthy of your love, but I ask that you take pity on me and let my witcher live.”

It was a pretty speech. Dramatic, like something out of a ballad, and apparently just right for a knight who looked as though he’d stepped out of child’s storybook of fairytales and romance. Reynauld’s lip trembled. Then he schooled his expression with a firm nod.

“Rise, Julian. I would not have you debase yourself for his sake or mine.” He helped Jaskier to his feet. “You’ve always spoken from the heart, and though my own breaks to say this, it is obvious that I am not even the spark of an ember in the face of the roaring fire of passion the witcher instills in you.”

“You are a wonderful man, Reynauld. Please believe me when I say that. We certainly shared many, many enjoyable nights together. And some days, and afternoons, even.” Oh, for fuck’s sake. Geralt bit back another snarl as Reynauld visibly preened at Jaskier’s words. “But while I will always look back at our time together fondly, it is simply not meant to be between us.”

“It is a harsh truth, but I shall not shy away from it,” Reynauld stated. To Geralt he solemnly intoned, “Geralt of Rivia—White Wolf—know that you have the most precious treasure in all the world: the heart of Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Letterhoven, whose beauty is unparalleled and whose love, once given, is not easily forgotten. May he live in happiness by your side, witcher, for if not—if I find that he has been mistreated, or is unhappy, that you have cast aside his affections—I will hunt you down, and we shall have our duel. I swear it.”

His words stoked Geralt’s rage. The very implication that he might misuse Jaskier—but even so, he responded, “Then this is our first and last meeting. You’ll never have reason to pursue me. This, I swear.”

Something very soft and lovely bloomed across Jaskier’s face. His cheeks turned pink, his blue eyes shone. He smiled at Geralt, staring at him for one heartbeat, then two, and then turned to Reynauld. “You will find a partner worthy of your devotion. I know you will.”

The knight sighed. “In time, when the sting of rejection lessens, then yes, I probably shall find another. But, Julian, know that you were worthy to begin with, and my first love. There is always a special fondness for one’s very first love.”

At that Jaskier’s gaze met Geralt’s once more. “Yes,” he said, softly, “That is quite true.”

* * *

After they departed Jaskier remained unnaturally quiet. There was still a residual scent of embarrassment on him, and a kind of wariness that Geralt disliked. At first he thought to wait for the bard to broach the issue himself, but when they reached the inn and unpacked amidst an overwhelming silence he decided to get to the root of the matter.

“That was quick thinking. What you said to him,” Geralt offered.

Jaskier paused from unlacing his boots and smiled. “He hasn’t changed much. It’s been years since I saw him last—longer than you and I have been together. Before I even went on the road.” He tensed, a little, and Geralt knew that this was the crux of it.

“When you were Julian,” he said. He had never really thought of Jaskier _before_ Oxenfurt. Not that Geralt had imagined that he’d sprung fully formed from the university’s walls, mischievous and amorous, lute in hand and a twinkle in his eyes. But if there was a time when he hadn’t been a bard then he hadn’t been the Jaskier that Geralt knew and took into his arms every night.

A noble—a viscount. What a surprise. Jaskier was funny, witty, cared about others, and, so long as he could complain the entire time, willing to work hard and tough it out—all traits that were rather the opposite of the so-called nobles that Geralt had met throughout his life.

“I still am Julian, I suppose. In some places. To some people. I just never—it was never a life that I wanted and—It’s not like I wanted to _forget_ it, or put it behind me. Rather, I think I just wanted to start anew. To live life my own way. Forgive me, Geralt. I never meant to lie to you about my identity, or my past.”

“You didn’t lie,” Geralt said, “You just didn’t tell me.”

Jaskier scoffed. “That’s lying by omission, darling.”

“Not if I don’t care.”

The bard’s face flickered with hurt and Geralt cursed himself. Jaskier said, “Ah, well. If you don't _care_ then I suppose I was worrying for nothing.”

“No, that’s not what I—” He took a deep breath. “I just mean that, to me, you’ve always been Jaskier. Never known you not to be. If you ever want to tell me more about your life before you went to university, then I’ll gladly listen. But if not—then so be it. You’ve always given me the most important parts of yourself.” Geralt swallowed. “Does that make sense?”

“Oh, my love.” Jaskier sighed. He fell into Geralt’s waiting arms, right where he was always meant to be. “I thought you were cross with me. You seemed so angry.”

“I _was_ angry. He was— _saying_ things. About you. That he loved you. And that I— _don’t_. What does he know? Not you—he never knew _you_ , Jaskier.”

The gentlest of kisses was pressed to the corner of his mouth. “We were young. I think poor Reynauld loves the idea of me. Or at least, who I was, once upon a time. Ugh, and those theatrics! All he reads are old romances. I hope I’m not nearly that overdramatic.”

Geralt decided that the best response to that statement was to stay silent. He pulled Jaskier closer to gently suck at the creamy skin of his throat.

“I like that,” Jaskier murmured. “Admit it, Geralt. You were a little jealous when he mentioned my sweet moans and my lovely lips.”

“Lovely, plump lips,” Geralt grumbled.

“Oh, yes. Reynauld was always quite descriptive.”

He buried his face in Jaskier’s neck. “I’m not,” he said. “And I can’t give you new clothes, or rich food. I’m no knight.”

“No, you’re my witcher, and you already give me all your love.” Jaskier rested his chin on Geralt’s head. “Were you really going to kill Reynauld?”

He’d wanted to throttle the stupid fuck until his handsome face went purple and he choked on his tongue. Cut him down to size with his sword—show him that all his grand declarations were for naught. Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier and gave him a squeeze. “Was going to make him hurt, at least. For talking about you like that. For talking about _us_ like that.”

“My love,” Jaskier said.

Their dinner was a bit of partially-warm stew and stale bread, wheat crackers and dried fruit and nuts and ale that was halfway decent. They slept on a lumpy straw mattress with thick but somewhat coarse blankets. Jaskier, as always, snored and clung to him like a limpet, occasionally mumbling and kicking in his dreams. In the morning they would be on their way, down the road and then off into the wilds, searching for a contract and inspiration.

Perhaps, at one point in time, Julian Alfred Pankratz might’ve preferred a life of leisure. But it was Jaskier who loved to travel, who loved to see the mountains, the fields of flowers, the night sky, who pointed out the constellations, who wrangled every new experience and every hardship and every joy into verse, who created songs of their time spent together.

It was Jaskier who loved him, and who Geralt loved fiercely, ardently, in return.


End file.
